


A Shield for Me

by sherlocktheholmes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ancient Rome, Drunkenness, First Kiss, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Spanish Inquisition, Wings, brief references to REM, references to absent ducks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-11 00:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocktheholmes/pseuds/sherlocktheholmes
Summary: Five times Aziraphale took care of Crowley, and one time Crowley took care of Aziraphale





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lupa_lupena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupa_lupena/gifts).

> This is the Good Omens Fan Exchange, organized by the wonderful @hastur_lavista. My prompt was from lupa_lupena who asked for: 5 times Aziraphale had to take care of Crowley, + the 1 time Crowley took care of him. I hope you like it!

**The Garden of Eden  
4004 b.c.**

Thunder rumbled ominously and loudly. The dark clouds which had been gathering all day on the horizon finally climbed overhead. Aziraphale stared after Adam and Eve as they shrank farther away, the flaming sword glinting like a lighthouse beacon. Or it would have, if lighthouses and beacons had yet been invented. The wind picked up, cold after the hot desert air and baking sun. Next to him, the demon called Crawly shivered.

Aziraphale was first and foremost a guard: God had put him on Earth to protect the Eastern Gate of Eden. But now the people he’d protected from the outside world were gone from within its high walls, and with them, his purpose. So he'd given them his sword. He couldn't protect them anymore, not like he had done, but he could at least help them to help themselves. It was the best he could do.

It didn't feel like enough.

The first fat drops of rain fell, and Crawly shifted slightly. Aziraphale immediately, and without considering why, stretched his left wing as high and wide as he could. Crawly shuffled under, not saying anything, but with a look on his face that seemed grateful, and not a little surprised. Aziraphale decided not to analyze it all overly much. He laced his fingers together and turned his eyes back to the last few glints of the sword.

They stood together for a long time, the angel and the demon. The storm kicked up, wind whipping their robes about their ankles. Cold water drummed onto Aziraphale, flattening his curls, dripping down his back, soaking him all over. His wing held steady, shedding water so that Crawly stayed dry. Neither of them spoke. The sword, and with it the two humans, disappeared behind a sand dune.


	2. Loneliness

**Rome  
41 a.d.**

"I must say, that was delicious." Aziraphale settled into his seat. Across the table, Crowley did the same, setting down two ceramic cups and a jug of wine. They’d just come from Petronius’s; upon leaving, Aziraphale had suggested a nightcap and, to his mild surprise, Crowley had taken him up on it.

“Rather liked them myself.” Crowley said as he poured wine for them both, his eyes flitting over the dark glasses which had slipped a bit down his nose. 

Aziraphale contemplated them for a moment before he asked, “Do they help you keep a lower profile? The, ah, glasses, I mean.”

Crowley didn’t say anything for a moment, just nodded and then drank a heavy gulp of wine. Then he added, swirling his cup a bit, “Better if I’m inconspicuous. I’d rather be ignored by the people who just. Well. Sort of get in the way.”

Aziraphale turned this over in his mind for a moment. It was true for him as well, he supposed. But something about Crowley’s tone was a bit dark. Less genial than it had been up until now. 

He wasn’t sure he should bring it up, but he felt that something he’d noticed earlier might now be relevant. 

“Is that why you’re presenting as a man? Easier to get where you need to be for this assignment?” He sipped his wine.

Crowley stilled. Silence reigned for several moments. Then he downed his cup before pouring himself another.

"Easier to get anywhere if I'm not a woman." He sighed heavily. "You know what it can be like."

Aziraphale blinked before he answered slowly, "Well, no, I really don't."

Crowley looked surprised. "You mean your corporation is always a man? Why?"

Aziraphale was a bit nonplussed. "I… I have never thought about it."

Crowley stared at him. Then he barked a laugh that broke the tension. "You're missing out."

A more comfortable silence settled over them for several minutes, Aziraphale contemplating notions he never had before considered. He’d never questioned the body he’d been assigned, and never bothered with changing it in any particular way. It had always seemed to fit him. _But,_ he mulled to himself, _perhaps a change could be nice… sometime._ As for altering his clothing and hair, ‘when in Rome’ was, for now anyway, apt in more than one sense.

"I was surprised to see you again after just eight years," Crowley ventured, "After all, we've been going millennia without seeing each other. It’s..."

“Nice?”

The demon made a face. “Not sure that’s the word I’d pick,” He muttered into his cup.

Aziraphale smiled. "Well perhaps we shall make a habit of it.”


	3. Himself

**Spain  
Summer of 1486**

It didn't become a habit. Aziraphale had seen Crowley just once in the past millennia and a half, and that had been nearly one thousand years ago. There had been plenty to do in this part of the world, what with disease, ignorance, and fear abounding. He had been tremendously busy, and because of that (or perhaps in spite of?) they had not chanced to meet.

Aziraphale had been in England for several decades, trying his best to bring the civil war to an end. So many people were suffering and dying, and for what? The color of a rose. Aziraphale had wielded his influence strategically, and it seemed to have finally paid off. January saw the wedding of Elizabeth of York to Henry VII, and he could do nothing else but hope the bloodshed might be over. He lingered in London through the spring and into the summer, but it seemed that the calm was tentatively holding.

Feeling better able to focus more broadly on humanity’s sufferings, Aziraphale began to divert his attention to other parts of the world. Wretchedness abounded. But it was Spain that stood out in his mind, like a bruise on an apple, ready to rot the whole fruit and indeed the entire barrel if left unchecked. The war between opposing armies in England had been bad enough, but the hostilities being waged against hundreds of thousands of people in Spain were against unarmed innocents.

Rather than spend weeks or months traveling slowly across the Continent, Aziraphale opted to miracle himself there instead. He concentrated on where he felt the worst of the suffering, and holding the location in his head, he willed himself there. 

It was late evening when Aziraphale appeared, carefully hidden in a shadowy copse of trees on the outskirts of the city of Zaragoza. He willed his clothing into something appropriate for the region, and began to walk. The air was still and heavy, party with an oncoming storm, but mostly with fear. The weight of it increased and thickened the farther he went, dread and suspicion and suffering all screaming in his head.

Then, another frisson crackled through his awareness. It was small, and far away, but bright; like heat lightning in a distant thunderhead on a summer’s night. He hadn’t felt it in so long, but it was unique. _Crowley._ He was somewhere in the city. Aziraphale smiled, but his face quickly fell when he realised something was off about the sensation, like hearing a chord with a slightly flat note.

Aziraphale turned in the direction where he felt Crowley and quickened his pace. He was veering south and slightly west, skirting the city center. This buildings here were squat, ugly, and by turns seemingly abandoned or seething with disreputable activities. Suspicion oozed. A rank odour rose up from the stones, made worse by the oppressive summer heat. Thunder rumbled. He felt he was quite close now, but didn’t understand why Crowley would choose to be here of all places. There were evil forces at work here, yes, but the demon tended to keep himself comfortable whenever possible.

The trail led to a tavern, a building in slightly better repair than its neighbors. Aziraphale pushed his way inside. The interior was dark and thick with smoke from a low fire and several candles. Aziraphale was grateful that he had no need to breathe in the stench. There was a man behind the bar, and several other figures bent over a table. Aziraphale could see a rickety staircase to the left, rising into the gloom. Undoubtedly there was a squalid room or two to let, and he felt certain Crowley was in one of them.

“You thirsty?” The barkeeper grunted at him. 

Aziraphale was on edge. He wanted to get Crowley and leave as fast as possible. Thunder rumbled again, louder. “I’m looking for my master’s son. I believe he may be here.”

The barkeeper eyed Aziraphale, clearly calculating the size of his purse based on his decent clothes. “May be. Who’s your master?”

Aziraphale declined to answer. “Is there a man here with red hair? If so I should be happy to pay his bill and take him with me.”

There was silence for a moment as the barkeeper tallied in his head. “One week, plus all the wine... Ten doubloons.”

This was extortion, plain and simple. Aziraphale wouldn’t have paid a fraction of that for a week in this sty, but his worry was mounting. He handed over the coins without argument. 

In a blink, the barkeeper had secreted the money away. “Upstairs. First door on the left.” He snorted, “Good luck.”

Aziraphale turned without another glance and ascended the stairs, grateful that if the wood crumbled beneath him he could at least miracle himself to safety. He reached the landing without incident however, and stood before the door. Raising his hand, he gently knocked. 

“Crowley?”

Silence from within. 

He knocked again, louder. “Crowley? It’s- Well, it’s Aziraphale.”

Nothing but a crack of thunder. 

Aziraphale was concerned but not deterred. He pushed open the miraculously unlocked door and froze on the threshold. If the smell had been bad downstairs, it was nothing to this room. The air positively roiled with a fetid combination of stale alcohol, unwashed skin, and vomit. Not needing to breathe only helped a bit; Aziraphale felt the stench, carried by the sticky heat, seeping into his very pores. With the sun set and the fire in the grate down to a few embers, it was nearly impossible to see. Aziraphale conjured a small orb of light on the ceiling to illuminate the room. There wasn’t much in it. A filthy bed, an overturned chair, a broken chamber pot. And slumped into a corner, Crowley.

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale gasped as he rushed to his side.

The demon was awake. He stared blankly toward the wall before him. He didn’t move or acknowledge the angel’s presence. 

“Crowley please,” Aziraphale glanced him up and down, taking in his soiled clothes and tangled hair. “Are you hurt?” He reached out to find and heal any injuries. 

The second his fingertips brushed the demon’s shoulder, he jolted like he’d been frightened awake. “Don’-” He moved him limbs in a sort of uncoordinated flop that accomplished nothing. “_Don’ touch me,_” he hissed. 

“Crowley, what has happened?”

Crowley blinked once, twice, and lolled his head towards the angel and slurred, “Ziraphale, my ol’ pal. Come t’ see how m' good work is comin' along?”

“Crowley, I don’t understand. What are you doing in this awful place?”

“They sen m'acommidation."

_"What?"_

"Bastardsss." Crowley slumped over.

Aziraphale had had enough. He scooped Crowley into his arms, ignoring his weak protests, pressing the reeking demon to his chest and miracling them away. The greedy barkeeper and drunks downstairs would never realise that they never actually saw them leave. The duo appeared back in the same secluded copse where Aziraphale had arrived. Lightning illuminated them in an eerie glow.

Crowley finally managed to push himself from Aziraphale’s arms and fell in a heap on the ground. Thunder rumbled as he pushed himself up, ungainly, and turned, furious, to the angel.

“_Why’d you come for me?_”

Aziraphale was rather at the end of his patience, which perhaps wasn't the best thing for an angel, but no matter.

"Crowley, I didn't. At least, not on purpose. I sensed you after I arrived and you felt… Off." Crowley scoffed, Aziraphale ignored him. "I came here to see what's to be done to stop the Inquisition. Can't you sense what’s going on?"

Crowley blinked once, and began to giggle. Lightning flashed. He bent over, laughing hysterically, clutching his stomach as thunder cracked. Aziraphale lost the last of his patience. Normally he wouldn't do anything that might overstep the bounds of personal space, but Crowley was clearly in no shape to care for himself. Aziraphale took two steps forward, grasped Crowley's wrists firmly, and pulled him upright. He sobered the demon up, drawing the alcohol from his system. It took a bit of work because there was a truly tremendous amount in his blood, but when Aziraphale was done, he found himself clutching a now clear-headed Crowley. The first few raindrops pattered the leaves overhead.

Crowley swayed. Aziraphale kept hold of his wrists while he steadied himself. The demon stilled, and hung his head.

"Crowley-"

"They sent me a commendation."

"What?" 

"Hell. I was knocking about in the cantinas here and they sent me a commendation for my hard work with the Spanish Inquisition. I had no idea-" He pushed back from Aziraphale. "I just wanted to see what I was being praised for." His face contorted. "They're torturing them by the dozens. Hundreds. They're driving out whole families with kids-" He turned and staggered out of the trees to the meadow behind. Aziraphale stayed close. Outside of the protection of the trees, the wind whipped their clothes about. Thunder crashed again, and the sky finally opened up. They were both drenched in seconds. Crowley came to a stop and stood for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. 

"_It wasn't me!_" Aziraphale barely heard him over the crashes from above. Crowley fell to his knees. Aziraphale rushed over and knelt next to him, tentatively placing a hand on his back. This time, Aziraphale didn't unfurl his wing. Water mixed with the filth on Crowley clothes and body and ran away in muddy rivulets.

Crowley's voice was hoarse, "It wasn't me. I couldn't- not this." 

They knelt together in the field for a long time. Aziraphale decided that Crowley shouldn't be left alone that long ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta reader, M, compared this part to Victor Hugo's writing, which seemed like a compliment until he clarified that Hugo too liked to ramble about historical events he found interesting, while ignoring the plot.


	4. Hell

**London  
1992**

Aziraphale thought he'd done a pretty decent job in the centuries following the incident in Zaragoza. He had kept Crowley away from any similar outbursts (his century long nap not counting, being less self-destructive and more of a sulk than anything else). And if the price for that was The Arrangement well then so be it. The whole thing worked.

They had just arrived back at the bookshop after a lovely dinner of sushi. The meal, atmosphere, and company had been excellent. Crowley parked the Bentley and for a moment neither moved, finishing up the thread of conversation that had accompanied them on their drive. 

"Shall we have a nightcap?" Aziraphale almost didn't feel the need to ask, as they always did just that.

Crowley opened his mouth to answer, but his radio, which had been quietly playing in the background during the drive popped and fizzed, Michael Stipe’s voice warping slightly before saying, “Hello Crowley. New assignment for you.”

This process wasn’t new to Aziraphale. He’d been present before when Crowley’s radio was briefly commandeered by Crowley’s head office to send him on some diabolical task or other. 

Crowley made a face and gripped the steering wheel where his right hand rested, but smoothly replied like he wasn’t in the company of a heavenly enemy. “Dagon? Wonderful. What’s the job?”

“Temptation in Notting Hill. Circumstances a bit tricky. Think you’re up to it?”

“Of course,” Crowley sounded bored. 

“Instructions incoming.” The radio wavered and resumed, “...That’s me in the spotlight, losing my religion…”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to primly reprimand Crowley, challenge him that if he tried to do any sort of tempting he would quickly be thwarted. Before he could utter a word, a white mist wafted out of the radio in streams and entered Crowley’s eyes and ears. He watched, not a little horrified, as Crowley went slack, hand resting on the steering wheel, head lolled to one side, making no indication he was aware of anything around him. Aziraphale raised his hand to touch his shoulder, thought better of it, and dropped it down to nervously fiddle with the hem of his coat. He couldn’t risk Hell knowing he was here. They’d take Crowley away and destroy him if they knew. 

It lasted only about thirty seconds, but it seemed a lot longer. Finally, the last of the streams entered Crowley’s eyes. With it gone, he jerked, shaking his head slightly so that his long hair fell into his face, hiding it from Aziraphale’s view. 

“My dear…” Aziraphale spoke softly, “Are you quite alright?” It felt like a very stupid thing to ask. 

Crowley swallowed, “Fine. ‘Course m’fine.” His hand gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. 

“Since when do they deliver messages like- well, like that.”

“What. Straight into my brain?” 

Aziraphale paused for a moment. “If they can contact you over the radio, why not give you your instructions that way, like before?”

Crowley scoffed. “Apparently, some demons have trouble with simple instructions so now they just,” he tapped his temple, “Stick it directly into our heads. Images, all of it. Fewer miscommunications.” He turned to Aziraphale, sounding bitter, “Makes it easier for everyone.”

Aziraphale was outraged. “They just mess about in your brain now? My dear that’s perfectly awful.”

“Oh angel.” Crowley looked suddenly very tired. “They’ve always done that. My side. Your side. Even if the methods are different.”

He could think of nothing to say to that. Instead he slowly smoothed his coat, staring at where he’d wrinkled it.

Finally, Aziraphale raised his head and asked, “Must you go now?”

Crowley had been staring into the middle distance. He blinked. “No. It’ll wait til morning.”

Aziraphale smiled tentatively. “Good. Come inside for a nightcap?”

Crowley nodded, and then together they got out of the Bentley and headed for the shelter of the bookshop.


	5. Heartache

**London  
Immediately after the Trials**

It was all over. A mere week that quite possibly held more stress and fear than the previous six thousand years of existence, and it was over.

Aziraphale gripped the escalator's handle as he ascended from Hell. He felt giddy, shaky, flushed with adrenaline and relief. _It worked. They bought it._ There was only one worry left in his heart, and that was for Crowley's safety. His concern, however, was alleviated as soon as he exited into the lobby. Crowley had made it there before he did. _Probably saved time, not having to towel off._ Crowley was wearing a tense expression on his face, _my face,_ pacing back and forth, clenching his fists. Unease rolled off of him like waves.

"My dear?" Aziraphale asked in Crowley's voice, softer than typical, and tentative. 

Crowley's barely contained nervous energy finally burst forth and he closed the distance between them to grasp Aziraphale's hand.

Crowley rasped, "Take us home."

Aziraphale didn't ask any questions. In an instant, Heaven and Hell melted into nothing and they were standing solidly in Crowley's flat. Still clutching Aziraphale's hand, Crowley grabbed the other, staring searchingly into the sunglasses on his own face. 

"Switch back."

"My dear fellow, what on earth-"

"Now." His voice faltered softly, "Please."

Aziraphale was confused at Crowley's agitation, but acquiesced, and in a moment their respective appearances melted back to their correct selves, starting from their still clasped hands. Aziraphale watch his own face wipe away to reveal Crowley's haggard one. The demon dropped one of the angel's hands to instead touch his cheek, and when Aziraphale started in surprise at the contact, brought up the other hand to gently hold him still. Crowley's gaze bore into Aziraphale.

"Please, Crowley, what's wrong?" Aziraphale's voice was quietly coaxing, the way one might speak to a skittish colt.

"Are you alright?" The demon's voice trembled slightly.

"Yes," Aziraphale replied patiently, "My dear, are you?"

Crowley exhaled shakily and dropped his hands from Aziraphale's face, stepping back to remove his sunglasses. They clattered to the floor as he covered his face with his hands and drew in a shaky breath, which he exhaled unsteadily. Crowley managed to make the few steps over to the sofa and collapsed onto it, tipping his head back against the cushions and once again covering his face with his hands. 

Aziraphale softly trod closer and carefully sat down near him on the edge, unsure if he ought to draw nearer for comfort or leave space for him to breathe. When Aziraphale spoke, his voice was wary. 

"My dear, please. Are you hurt?"

"No." Crowley finally replied, dragging his hands down his face and sitting up, twisting to the side and reaching toward Aziraphale. He gently brushed still-trembling fingers along his temples. Aziraphale went very still, pausing the nervous twisting of his hands in his lap.

"Crowley?"

"Those smirking _pricks._" Crowley abruptly stood and stalked a few paces away before he spun back around.

"That _bastard_ Gabriel looked you in the eyes and told you to die already and- and then he _smiled_ as he ordered you to step into Hellfire-" Crowley's voice rose in volume but broke at the end. He bit his lip and wrapped his arms around himself.

Aziraphale swiftly got up and came to where Crowley stood, this time being the one to reach up and cradle the demon's face in his hands. 

"My dear," Aziraphale spoke softly.

Crowley slumped ever so slightly and brought up his own hands to cover Aziraphale's. He closed his eyes and turned his face into the gentle caress. For a moment they both stood still. Then Crowley's golden eyes opened and locked into hazel ones.

"He would have smiled as you burned into nothing."

Aziraphale briefly closed his eyes. "My dear," he repeated, thumbs brushing over Crowley's cheekbones, "Oh my dear. But I didn't burn, not just now, nor a few days so in my bookshop. I am here; I am safe. And so are-"

Aziraphale's words were cut off as Crowley surged forward and covered his mouth in a desperate kiss. Crowley groaned, nearly a sob against the angel's lips. He tangled his fingers in Aziraphale's curls, mussing them more wildly than usual.

It was short, but intense, and when Crowley broke away he squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against the angel's, breathing deeply.

Aziraphale was stunned. "Oh," he breathed.

Crowley seemed too take a moment to find his voice, and hoarsely whispered, "I'm sorry."

He dropped his hands and began backing away, looking anywhere and everywhere except the stupefied angel. But before he could take more than two steps, Aziraphale seized his wrists in a grip that was gentle but firm. Crowley's wild eyes snapped back up to Aziraphale's face, but seemed unable to hold his gaze.

"I'm sorry," Crowley apologized again, dropping his eyes to stare at Aziraphale's hands clasping his wrists, "I know you don't want- well. Anything, I s'pose, really, especially not without asking first." He croaked out a hoarse laugh. "Wouldn't hardly do for me to put off the one person left in existence who has my back, eh? I'll just- go to my flat-, well, bugger, this is my flat, but, er, make yourself at home and I'll just go to my bedroom-"

The hands grasping his wrists tightened to the point of being painful. This very effectively cut off Crowley's rambling, but it was Aziraphale's tone that made the demon still. 

"Stop."

He did.

"Look at me." 

Crowley's gaze dragged up, from hands to waistcoat to bow tie, and finally settled back on Aziraphale's face. 

"My dear," his voice was low, inexorable. "How long?"

Crowley's throat clicked dryly as he tried to swallow, voice croaking, "Ages. Millennia. Since…" and here he did manage to swallow, staring into eyes that forbade lying, "Since the garden. Since you gave your sword away because it was the kind thing to do."

Now it was Aziraphale who closed his eyes, and sighed out a long breath. "I ought to be damned for a fool."

Then he tugged Crowley toward himself by the wrists, pulling him down just enough to capture his mouth in a searing kiss.

Crowley made a sound in his throat that was very close to a whimper. Aziraphale dropped one wrist to reach up and caress Crowley's cheek. His other hand slipped gently around Crowley's waist and splayed against his lower back, carefully pulling him flush against Aziraphale's body and anchoring him there. He moved his lips against Crowley's carefully but firmly, meaning to keep his mind from wandering back to dark places.

Too soon, Aziraphale pulled back, but only just enough to look Crowley in the eyes. He looked broken. 

Aziraphale heaved a deep sigh, "I am sorry I didn’t realized. I wish you would have told me."

Crowley tentatively raised his hands and settled them on Aziraphale's shoulders. "I couldn't tell you… how could- how could I dare? You deserve so much better than-"

Like a spark, Crowley's words ignited something in Aziraphale that swept through, burning fiercely. He tightened his arm around Crowley's waist while sliding his hand up to grip his hair. His voice was low, "I will not stand for you demeaning yourself."

Crowley's eyes had fluttered closed at Aziraphale's touch. The angel gently pulled the demon's head down to rest on his shoulder and continued stroking his hair. He swayed them gently back and forth. 

After several minutes, he spoke, "I've got you. We are safe."


	6. Rain

**London  
November, After**

Grey clouds swelled lazily overhead, looking more threatening than they had done when Aziraphale and Crowley had first begun their leisurely stroll. It was a late fall afternoon, darker than it really should have been for the time of day, but dark afternoons are a November specialty. They'd lunched at the Ritz, their favorite place for Aziraphale to eat and Crowley to nibble. A walk had seemed splendid then, after dessert and coffee and lounging in the warmth and light, but now with a hint of winter on the breeze and rain in the clouds, the bookshop or the flat were probably better options.

Neither one suggested going back just yet, however. Perhaps the threat of stormy weather made them want to savor being outdoors while they could. The two meandered along slowly, not really talking, not really looking at anything, just enjoying the other one's presence. They came to a stop by the water in St. James's Park, grey and rolling like the sky above. Everyone else had heeded the warning signs and left for more sheltered locales, leaving the two of them alone.

"No ducks to feed today," Aziraphale noted absently. It made him feel a little sad, but he couldn't explain why, even to himself.

"Just as well," Crowley replied, "We've nothing to feed them with anyway."

They lapsed back into silence. A few fat raindrops pattered onto the pavement, splashed into the pond. Aziraphale shivered. Then, even as the rain began to fall harder, he heard and felt a rush of displaced air, and realised he was still dry.

Crowley's right wing stretched above him, sheltering him from the cold rain, sleek black feathers shedding the water neatly to the sides. Aziraphale started to protest the conspicuousness of the action.

"Don't worry about it, Angel." Crowley gazed out, across the pond. "There's nobody watching us."

Water dripped off Crowley’s hair and feathers. Azirapahle smiled, and sidled closer. He linked his arm into the crook of Crowley’s elbow and pressed against his bicep. 

“Come along, my dear. Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!
> 
> Title comes from Psalm 3:3 because I guess I just name all my fics for Bible verses. *shrug*
> 
> Thanks as always to M, my lovely beta reader.


End file.
